


The Trials, And The Hunger

by bbvhrla



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Bondage, Dubious Consent, Knifeplay, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-01
Updated: 2013-05-06
Packaged: 2017-12-10 02:11:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/780577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bbvhrla/pseuds/bbvhrla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will Graham discovers Hannibal Lecter's secret, too little, too late. Dub/con and mature ratings apply after the first chapter. Inspired from the TV show, book and some kinkmeme prompts. GRAPHIC & DARK</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He is drunk already by the time Hannibal arrives. There is a brief, stomach-twisting moment of panic as the screen door slams shut, springs tight, and he sees what Hannibal sees covering the floor of the front room: a horizontal closet serving as a makeshift dog bed. He closes his eyes, squeezes them shut, every muscle in his face tense as he listens to the slow _clip_ of the psychiatrists' shoes, careful, precautionary, picking out a path through the mess to reach him. It has been a long week, a long month, but Will never used to care what anyone thought of the state of his home. The dogs don't care about dirt on the floor, and even if he felt the need to clean for guests, the only people who came over showed up uninvited, unannounced. What makes Hannibal any different?

He knows the answer, unspoken but its there. It isn't _normal_ for a psychiatrist - no, for _anyone_ to stick around for this long. People get frustrated, they give up, but Hannibal has not even raised his voice to Will, not once. It can't be real, he knows this, there is some game Hannibal is playing, some research experiment he is all too eager to perform on the unfortunate messed-up brain they all pretend is an asset, a gift. Unthinkable that Hannibal is acting void of ulterior motives, yet Will cannot help the trust he feels for the man. He hates it, hates that he can't control it, that every time he senses the suited psychiatrist behind him at a crime scene any rising panic is quelled, anxiety sedated, he hates that he is so desperately dependent, that he is not strong enough to break away. It will happen eventually, something said or done and Hannibal will be through with him. He swallows, throat still raw from the whiskey he's been drinking since he got home. Devastation of the mind is inevitable if he doesn't retreat first. The footsteps are approaching, his eyes shut tight.

“Will.”

Incredible. He hadn't even realized his breath had stopped until he hears that voice and all his air comes rushing in at once. If he opens his eyes, he knows, Hannibal will be standing close, and he will be defenseless.

“Can you answer me?”

He jumps slightly, lips twitching into a bare smile. Hannibal removed his glasses with practiced precision; like a ghost, Will had not even felt the man's fingertips brush his skin. If he opens his eyes now, the world will be blurred, unspecific, unthreatening. How had he known so easily that is what Will needed?

“I - yes. I'm ok.”

“Are you anxious, Will?”

“Drunk.” He snorts a little, rubs his face awake with the back of his hands. Hannibal pulls out a stool noiselessly and sits next to him at the bar. The dogs are snuffling, shuffling around in the other room.

“You know why I'm here?”

Will doesn't answer. He hates questions like that, inane, unnecessary. They both know why, what's the point in making him say it out loud? Acknowledgement? _Skip the formalities, psychiatrist, you know me better than that by now._

Barely has the thought formed when Hannibal continues.

“You left your friends quite worried.”

“They're not friends.” It sounds harsher than he meant. Sometimes, when he says things, he just assumes people take them the wrong way, but he knows this time, from the way Hannibal goes still, that it isn't just him. He'd long ago stopped apologizing for it. “Colleagues.”

“All right. Colleagues. I've spoken to Jack and Alana, I let them know you're here.”

Will tilts his head slightly. There is something there, something off. Had Alana called? He can't think now where he'd put his phone. Hannibal hadn't been talking to anyone when he walked in, unless the haze in his head is louder than he thought. Unlikely to think he'd sat outside in the car to phone, not without checking first, without talking to him.

“You didn't.”

He picks up his glasses, toying with them for a moment before sliding them on to his nose. They pinch terribly against his pounding temples but he needs them for the moment. Hannibal faces him, looking ever so slightly confused.

“You didn't call them. Why lie about it?”

His face is blank, terribly blank, even looking in his eyes directly Will can see nothing. He shudders, _involuntary_ , looks away, _voluntary, habitual_.

“I wanted you to feel safe, Will. If you can't feel safe here, you can't anywhere. I can call them now, if you'd like.”

“They'll be fine.” Selfish, maybe, but he doesn't want to be talked about like some petulant child. Or maybe he just doesn't want Hannibal to be talking to anyone but him.

“This isn't the first time you've walked out like this.”

Will practically laughs. He's seen crime scenes of every kind, could replace every masterpiece in Hannibal's library with an account of each one, mutilations so grotesque he almost feels he should applaud the killers for their creativity. He falls deep into them, solves them and emerges and they pass by blurred like the world when looked on with his natural sight. Every so often, though, there's something visceral, some smell, some gesture and he can't keep it from waking him for weeks. His hands are shaking as he pulls off his glasses again, folding them carefully, their weight familiar in his breast pocket.

“Will.”

He shudders, engulfs his head in his hands, slouching into the support of the bar.

“I've brought dinner. Do you think you can eat?”

He wants to laugh again, _of course, you spoil me_ , but he just nods; his head is swimming but food will do him good. Especially Hannibal's.

“A plate for us both.” Hannibal stands, pulling the dishes delicately wrapped in foil from a bag Will hadn't even realized he'd brought in to the room. “I brought wine as well, but it seems you've had enough for now.” With a flourish, he sets the plate down on the bar in front of Will, circling to the kitchen to uncover clean silverware.

“What is it?” Will asks, glasses on again, peeking under the wrapping. The drawers rattle under Hannibal's ruthless search until at last he returns, setting a mismatched pair of forks between the plates and crumpling the foil in one swift slight of hand.

“Loin of a particularly succulent cow my butcher recommended. I believe he had it imported from a farm in Serbia. And the salad, my...”

Hannibal continues, but Will is no longer listening, he's gone cold. Minutes pass, perhaps, and his breath hitches as the realization hits him. He hasn't responded at all, none of the usual murmurs of appreciation, not even a nod. He looks up, stomach churning, Hannibal is watching him, and somehow, though his face is as expressionless as before, Will can see now that it is cold. He begins to shake.

“You - ”

He almost stands, but Hannibal is quick. With one powerful swing he smashes Will's head in to the wall at the far end of the bar, and Will falls clumsy, blinking into unconsciousness.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GRAPHIC  
> 

There is a crack in his glasses from the fall, the lens fragmented, but usable. His mind is racing, thoughts swelling with each second that passes and yet all the information coming in is foggy, unclear. Sitting, or rather slumped against the wall, and the lights are dim but they are making his head _pound_. His hair catches lightly in the wood paneling as he lifts his head, looking to the side, listening. It is immensely quiet.

He knows the wall he's facing, knows the stool on which he sits, the same as before. They're still in his dining room. 

_They_.

He tries to stand, but his legs are shaking out of control, and he realizes not only are his hands bound together, they are tied loosely to one of the thick wood columns the wall cuts to halfway up. Leaning back, he finds there is another bit of rope connecting his hands to the prickly noose around his neck. He stretches his arms out, and the noose tightens.

Will whimpers. The sound is muffled, absorbed by the gag stuffed practically down his throat, yet another rope holding it in place, scratching the stubble on his cheeks. He leans forward against the wall, curling up small, trying to breathe slow, trying to calm his heart. 

Realizations come together. The scent from the shirt in his mouth is invading his nostrils; at first he'd thought nothing of it because it was his own, but the rope is his too, pure hemp, it had been sitting next to his fishing gear in the front room. _Sloppy_ , then, _he wasn't prepared for this._

“Comfortable?”

He jumps. Hannibal had entered the room quietly, or maybe he'd been there all along, watching. As he closes the distance between them his smell clouds Will's thoughts, familiar, _reassuring_ , light fingers tracing the lines of his cheek, his constricting throat.

“They say one engaging in these types of activities should leave enough space between the rope and the skin for a man's finger to fit, for safety.”

He pinches at the nape of Will's neck where the hairline ends and yanks him back, suddenly, forcefully. The recoil from his arms makes the noose tight. 

Hannibal's hand curls lazily in Will's hair, guiding him to lean back against the man's mid-drift, his thigh. Will knows he must be drenched already, the cloth of his shirt sticking to the silk suit. The thought that Hannibal can feel him shaking only makes him shake harder. His back arches at Hannibal's breath, hot in his ear.

“I'd like for you and I to try things a bit riskier.”

At this, Hannibal kicks the stool out from under him, and what cry Will might've made is strangled in the straining ropes. Hannibal lets him hang for a moment, kicking, before he sets the stool upright again, this time draping Will over it so he is resting on his chest. Shallow breaths, if the lights were bright before its nothing to how they assault his eyes now. Hannibal leans over him, barely touching, and straightens his glasses, and for a moment Will feels a sickening relief, the movement so wholly reminiscent of the one made by a friend not so long ago. He lets out a hoarse sob when those careful fingers begin to unbuckle his belt. Precise, moderate, he pushes down Will's slacks, his boxers, only enough to reveal his ass, and when his hands withdraw, and Will hears the light _squelch_ like stepping in mud, _blood_ , _I don't even keep lube in the house_ , he knows whats coming.

“I could tell you, Will, that you are the first to excite this particular behavior in me - ”

One hand on his neck pressing him down into the cut edges of the stool, the thumb of the other delving slick into the crack between his cheeks. Hannibal shoves one finger in, quickly, painfully, and pulls back on the noose, strangling any cry in a gasp of asphyxiation.

“But the truth is there have been others.”

Will bucks at the second finger, slathered with even less lube than the first, _weak_ , trying desperately to gain some footing, his glasses already askew again. Hannibal leans forward, deepening the fingers already inside, and draws Will back against him, supporting them both, cupping the front of Will's neck in his hand. The third finger works its way in slowly, circling, widening, mimicking the lazy rhythm with which he speaks.

“You, my dear Will, are the first that has needed me, relied on me, and that I find delightful.”

At this, the hand holding Will's throat drops to his arms. He feels wet on his neck, Hannibal has taken the noose in his teeth, and, fingers still working Will's asshole, he slowly begins to pull down on Will's bound hands. The noose tightens, tantalizingly slow, Will's eyesight and mind alike are popping with white lights, and he feels himself twitch with a panicked absurdity, _how can you tell your blood it's going the wrong way_. He tries to gasp, tries to swallow, tries anything but his throat is useless. His body's on fire, tingling and alive and incredibly grateful when Hannibal's cock fills the void his fingers left behind. One hand back around his neck, the other keeping his arms from rising, Hannibal thrusts until Will's legs buckle, and the stool does what it can to support them.

It takes him a moment to register through the haze that Hannibal's fingers are loosening the knot at his throat, and just as Hannibal comes inside of him, he lets go of Will's arms, and the air rushes back into his lungs. Both panting, chest and back leaning heavy against one another, and Will can feel Hannibal grin against his cheek as he finds Will's cock almost as hard as his own. He pulls out, drawing his fingers down Will's shaft as he does, teeth bared against the skin of his neck. His hands shift suddenly, twisting Will around and up onto the stool, pushing both against the wall as he bends and takes Will's cock into his mouth. 

Will feels light, still, and although the blood rush has turned to painful pricks all over his body, the pleasure still resonating in his ass and his groin is intense. Hannibal runs his teeth across the veins in Will's cock and his eyes snap open with a raspy moan.

Glasses still askew, but for the first time since he woke he sees the room, the broken dish he knocked to the floor when he fell, the blood streak on the wall. _My blood?_ His stomach clenches, and, looking down, he feels the moment mute against what he knows. Hannibal lets out a growl, Will's erection's gone soft, but before the man can look up, Will swings his bound fists into Hannibal's head.

The scream is so muffled it has to have been his own. _Stupid, stupid, Will._ Hannibal _bit_ him, and the momentum vaulted him off the stool so he was hanging again, eyes wet from the pain and the lack of air. His legs kick uselessly, and through the blur he can see Hannibal, propped on an elbow, carefully feeling out the damage to his head.

He stands inhumanly fast, or else Will's vision is just too far gone, and though he tries to move back Hannibal grabs him easily by the front of his shirt, slamming him back against the wall. The ledge cuts into his back, Hannibal's powerful forearm pressing into his ribs. He digs into Will's stomach, face livid, nails sharp enough to draw blood.

“That was not so wise, Will.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> GRAPHIC

“I'm curious to know what it was that clued you in.”

He speaks as he has been all night, lips next to Will's ear, crouched just behind of his line of sight. Ever calm, ever composed, except for that one fleeting moment of rage, _my fault_.

It's not, of course it's not, but Hannibal promised a harder bite if he tried it again, and the nails in his abdomen already sliced into his skin.

 _Nothing, that's nothing, you've seen what he can do_.

“I believe I may already know. The girl, the Serbian, you found her earlier than I'd planned. Was it her you ran away from tonight?”

_Washed up on the banks, meat hacked off_

Hannibal twists the knot he is tying around Will's wrist, pinching his veins. 

“Answer me, Will.”

He nods, and Hannibal releases.

The chair he's in now is sturdier than the stool, but the way he's seated leaves his muscles screaming. Arms draped over the sides, the chair's low back cutting into his shoulders, and Hannibal is tying his wrists to his ankles, the rope is so taut his knees are practically on the floor.

“Unfortunate, I'll admit, but she was not so gruesomely done as many of my others. Why her?”

Will shudders. 

_The dog_. 

It was a dog that had found her, chewing on the bones of her leg when they approached, feral, but it had looked unbearably familiar, like on of his own.

Suddenly, Will remembers all the times Hannibal has bribed his dogs, and his stomach roils.

Hannibal lets out a hiss at the sight of the watery vomit dripping past the gag, the gurgling sound of Will choking. His stomach was empty but for whiskey, the clarity that comes from nausea relief canceled by fire in his throat.

Hannibal yanks back on his arms, checking the knots. With a hand steady on Will's shoulder, he leans in to Will's cheek, sniffs, and sighs, _disappointed_. His hand moves up, lingering on the discolored ring left by the noose, and falls away to the meat of his arm.

He drags Will to the bathroom, letting go with a recoil next to the bath. He rolls down the rope holding the gag in place, at the same time reaching up to unhook the shower-head. After testing the water, he draws out the gag slowly, using only the tips of two pinched fingers and, discarding it, points the spray straight at Will's face.

It does little to relieve his throat, but it feels clean, and he saves what he can, swishing the taste of bile out of his mouth. He spits over his shoulder, careful not to direct it toward Hannibal, who lets the shower head swing back into the bath.

Hannibal kneels in front of him, swiping the water droplets off his glasses with his thumbs, and taking Will's cheeks into his hands, steadies his head, commanding his gaze.

“I don't want you to vomit anymore, understand? I won't be pleased.”

He nods slightly, eyes flickering assent, Hannibal's thumb stroking the ridge of bone under his eye.

“The girl. Why her?”

“The – the dog.”

He winces at the sound of his own voice, warbled and hoarse and weak all at once.

Hannibal considers him for a moment, his grip tightening. One hand moves back, supporting Will's neck, and with the other he draws out a silver-tipped knife, bringing the blade up close to Will's eye.

“Your dogs are fine, Will, although you have reminded me of a powerful bargaining chip.”

Will swallows, eye on the knife, and before he can respond Hannibal lowers it and cuts him at the corner of his mouth. It's not deep, but he can feel the hot blood rising. Hannibal tightens his grip on Will's hair, yanking his head back, and licks the blood that has run down his chin. His tongue moves up the trail, finally forcing it's way into Will's mouth as he sucks on the wound. Will gasps from the pain of it, breath raw in his spent throat.

Hannibal's other hand wanders underneath Will's shirt, tracing his ribs, pausing on it's way down to pinch the wounded skin on his stomach. He relieved Will of his slacks before tying him up again, exposed and that much easier to reach. Abandoning Will's hair, he begins to massage the tense muscles at the small of his back, at the same time teasing out Will's cock, deepening the touch with practiced fluidity. Will's hands are clenching behind the chair.

He considers trying to resist, not physically, he can barely move the ropes binding him are so tight, but he could think of something unappetizing, fixate, try and gain control. Hannibal will not give this up, he knows, and the thought, enticing, _you didn't get to finish before_

His stomach still feels sick, and empty, and the growing warmth in his groin is a relief. Will presses his mouth into Hannibal's, who responds with a hungry force. He is flushed all over, pathetically unhappy when Hannibal's hand leaves his back, and he gasps when he feels the cold blade of the knife on his throat. Hannibal withdraws slightly, fingers are light on his cock, toying.

“Look at me, Will.”

He swallows, he shivers, he opens his eyes, and Hannibal begins to work at him again, slower, _too slow._

“Just-”

“Don't speak.” The blade digs itself into the flesh under his chin and he grimaces, but he does not look away. He wonders, for a moment, if the look in Hannibal's eyes now is the one reserved for all those he kills, or if this hunger is just for him.

Hannibal can feel him shaking, ready, and he digs the blade in further, a warning, _don't look away_

He doesn't, gasping, _obedient_ , and Hannibal grins. Will's hands are still clenching, his body trying to reconcile this relief with the straining muscles, the open wounds. Hannibal stands, wiping his hand on the discarded gag, and then, quick, unexpected, pinches Will's nose. His mouth shocks open for air, and Hannibal stuffs the gag back in. Will chokes, a lagging scream caught in the fabric as the sensation fully registers of the acidic residue from the bile mingling with his cut lip. Hannibal fastens the gag in place, and as he pulls the rope tight it's splintered edges run up against the cut. Will jerks, stomach and lungs constricting in a dry-heave. 

Standing back, Hannibal's eyebrow and lip are raised in a snarl. There is fury in Will's eyes too, he knows, _resentment_ , and he tries to breathe it away, to look complacent, but it's too late.

Hannibal slaps him, backhanded, hard enough that the chair lurches to the side, and when the brunt of his weight lands on his twisted bicep he screams, feet curling the way his body can't. Hannibal picks him up by his hair, like he's a child, like he's weightless, and Will can feel strands separating from his scalp. With the shower-head turned on full blast, the water blisteringly hot, Hannibal positions Will underneath the spray, licks a last bit of blood from his neck and kisses him full on the forehead.

“I'll be back.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I keep changing the tags, I'm kind of figuring out this website/fanfic courtesy as I go. Chapter 4 is a bit calmer, let me know what you think!

“I apologize, Will, it has taken me far too long to return.”

Sounds are clearer with his eyes closed: skin squeaks against the faucet, the _hush_ of the numbing stream of water as it dies away.

“Pity the warm water ran out. I would not have said no to a bath for myself.”

He can't stop shivering. It would make more sense if he were still, his body is exhausted, but hours under the cold spray have driven a wedge between his senses and his brain.

“Will.”

Water _drip drip dripping_ from soaked clothes. Eyes closed, he sees what Hannibal sees: shivering, skin shriveled and pale, like a corpse, _unappetizing, please_

Hands on his face are shocking and warm, and he jumps.

“Open your eyes.”

It is dark in the room, Hannibal's face fractured, cloudy behind the water and the broken lens. Will's eyes flicker in beat with his shaking breath, and settle, finally, on his captor, _killer_

Hannibal breaks the gaze, looks up and down, studying. He finds Will's eyes again, strong hands preventing the typical nervous twitch. Then, softly -

“Would you like to get dressed, Will? Dry off, see the dogs perhaps?”

If there is a threat in the words Will cannot hear it. Hannibal's hand shifts, pushing back Will's wet hair and resting on his forehead, as if to check for a fever. It lingers there, and with eyes closed Will lets his tired head sink into the touch.

“I will take that as a yes.”

His hand moves to the back of Will's neck, leading him to lean into his chest. It is far enough away that doing so strains the rope between Will's wrists and ankles and he tenses, if it's even possible to tense more. Hannibal responds, massaging his neck, carefully avoiding the darkening bruise. _Relax_ , as much as he's able, but when Hannibal cuts the rope his muscles seize with the release.

 

 

The house is quiet. Cracks around the curtains of the bedroom windows reveal light, a rising sun. He can't walk very well, a few short steps from the bathroom and he sinks to sit on the floor, leaning back against the bed. A dry sweater, lined jeans and it doesn't take so long for the shaking to stop. Hannibal helps him dress; though at first Will recoils his touch is light, clinical, and Will is too weak to insist otherwise. He does not look Hannibal in the eyes as the man kneels in front of him, dabbing at the cut on his lip with antiseptic, but Hannibal does not seem to notice.

“You're not very talkative,” he says finally, as if they're in his office, a normal day, discussing some unsolved case.

“It's my throat.” As if that's it, the only reason. Hannibal nods, pressing a square of gauze on Will's lip.

“I'll make tea.” He stands, turns, pauses at the door. “Don't go anywhere.”

Laughable. He could barely make the five steps from the bathroom on his own, and that was with Hannibal lingering, watching, ready if he fell. No, he won't be going anywhere, not for a while yet. He closes his eyes, pulling each knee close to his chest with a grimace. There is no comfortable position.

He does not hear Hannibal return but the feel of the room changes, and when the warmed mug nudges against his fingers he looks up, first at the tea, then to Hannibal, kneeling again in front of him. When he doesn't take it Hannibal pulls the mug back and blows away some of the steam before taking a small sip, holding it out again.

“Just tea. You might let it cool a moment more.”

A sip is like a salve on his throat. He presses his other hand to the mug, for warmth and to stop it shaking. Another sip, soothing, but it does nothing to quiet his mind. Hannibal is kneeling still, leaned back on his heels, watching, expectant. Will sets down the mug.

“What is it?”

“What are you doing?” The sound of his voice is enough to make him cringe, an audible reminder, detracting from his line of thought. “This is – this isn't like you, I mean - ”

“Like me?”

How many rods, knives, did they find in the wounded man? How many more bodies unknown, unaccounted for? Will shudders, a hand reaching up to remove his glasses, to rub the memory out of his eyes. He jumps when Hannibal catches his arm, leading it down again, dropping it at his side, and as he leans down to Will's eye level Will knows he is not allowed to look away.

“Your mind is exquisite, Will. I haven't even killed you and you're trying to solve the crime.”

He looks down, he can't help it. _It's not a gift, but I would give it away_. Hannibal presses the mug back into Will's hands. He takes a long draught, and Hannibal leans back again, _pleased_

“What would you say, for example, if you came to this house as a crime scene and found I'd killed all those mutts?”

The room constricts around them.

“I haven't, Will, but what would you say?”

He tries, tries to think but he is also trying to breath, impossible to do both.

“I haven't, Will,” Hannibal says again, the patience in his tone dwindling. He leans in, a kiss firm and chaste, his breath warm against Will's lips as he whispers.

“But, what if I tell you I'm planning to?”

“Hannibal - ” It comes out like a sob. “Don't - ”

“Why not?” His hand on Will's shoulder, his neck, thumb stroking his jaw bone. “I don't care about these animals, Will.”

“Please.” _You're begging a psychopath, Will_ , but Hannibal's body is surrounding him, poised and strong and he is too tired to think.

“What would you do?” Will looks at him sideways, confused, he continues, his tone explanatory and amused that it needs to be, “to stop me killing them.”

“I – what do you want?” _That you haven't already taken, that I have to give_

And Hannibal speaks with a growing grin.

“Our evening was interrupted. I'd love you to join me for dinner.”


	5. Chapter 5

“What time is it?”

Light is flowing in from the front room, the house warming with the rising sun.

“Early. Jack knows you won't be in today.”

Will snorts, nostrils flare. Every question, every comment has been met with such a response. Small reminders, each one prompting in him a prick of annoyance, and fear. Hannibal is in the kitchen, too far away to bear witness to Will's subtle reactions. His movements between the counters and the stove are fluid even with the dogs milling about, waiting for him to drop another treat. They snap up, eager, and Will swallows.

“Is that necessary?”

“They enjoy it. You've been enjoying it for months. How many times have I cooked for you?”

The memory of each meal is fresh in his mind, back even to the beginning.

“Hobbs, the copycat kill…” Will feels the blood in his body run dry. “That was you, that was _for me_.”

“Yes.” Hannibal pauses at the cutting board, looking over with the ghost of a grin. “That was our first meal together, Will.”

Will looks away, and then the thoughts of the upcoming meal dull because there, slumped in the corner of the room, is his jacket.

In the kitchen Hannibal is at the stove, his back turned completely. _Humming?_

Will stands, slowly, he can't think or he wouldn't be able to move. He crosses the room, digs into the front pocket _quietly, quietly_ , crosses back, setting the cell phone on the chair under his thigh.

Back in the kitchen, Hannibal hasn't moved. “You solved that one, if I recall.”

“And we got Abigail.” He can’t dwell there; it’s too much, too much for one girl.

A missed call from Jack and two from Alana, each of hers with its own accompanying voicemail. He would've loved to listen, to hear her voice. He opens a message instead, to Jack, simple. _HL is the ripper, at home. Listen_. He waits for it to send, waits a few seconds more, all the while checking but Hannibal’s mind is on the food, _the meat_. Will presses the button to call, and places the phone back on the chair by his thigh, the microphone jutting out, ever so slightly exposed. The time that passes feels like water rising.

 

 

The dogs trail after Hannibal as he enters the dining room, their warm bodies bumping into Will’s hands, his legs, settling around the table. The plates Hannibal brings are filled with food, one for each and Hannibal sits next to him, bracing the corner.

“ _Croque madame_ , an open-faced French favorite, with a cooled cremini and _jaune flame_ sauté.” The meat is peeking out from underneath a layer of broiled cheese, pink, thin  & shaved.

“Who – ”

“Come now, Will, you used to compliment me on my cuisine.” He pulls a bite from his fork with his teeth. “I remember Hobbs quite clearly; we both know you don’t find killing as distasteful as you like to pretend.”

“You don’t know what’s in my head.” He considers the plate, a fork in hand, trying to breathe into it, but Hannibal speaks and he looks up at the venom in his voice.

“What was it that was so disquieting about reenacting Dr. Gideon’s kill? Was it how easily you were able to slip into his mind? You don't empathize with the victims, Will. He was mimicking me, remember?” Hannibal won’t let his gaze go. “I’ve been in your head for months. And this?” He sits back, the darkness that had come into the room retreating, a shadow passing by the sun. He gestures around, to the dogs and the meal and the two of them, together. “You want this.”

Will looks away. “Past tense, Hannibal.”

Of course he’d wanted it. How many nights had he woken in a sweat and wished Hannibal there? The overwhelming calm that came with his bodily presence; early mornings at a crime scene, in class, in his office, it didn’t matter, the ache of his absence was always there. But,

“I’m not like you.”

“No,” Hannibal chuckles softly. “You’re a terrible liar. Eat, Will.”

It isn’t a request. One of the dogs, maybe Winston, lies down by his feet as if on cue. The edges of the phone are pinching his leg, how long before they arrive? But Hannibal is watching him. He cuts off a corner small and swallows it whole. Hannibal laughs, but his eyes are narrow.

“Take your time, chew. This meal deserves to be savored.”

He will, he knows he will have to, but before he can the water spills over. All in a split second, he feels it first, the slight vibration, sees the screen light up as he looks down, and then, a solitary beep, _Battery at 14%_ flashing.

Hannibal is standing before Will looks up. He picks up the phone, fingers light against Will’s leg, studies it for a moment and vaults it aside.

Turning back, he drags Will up by his shirt and slams him against the wall, a hand tight on his throat.

“Too late,” Will’s voice is a whine, but if the words register Hannibal doesn’t show it.

Instead he leans in, ripping the gauze from Will’s lip with his teeth. The hand around his neck moves up, thumb pressing the cut till it cracks and the blood runs fresh. With the same knife from before Hannibal slits his own tongue, light on the end. A kiss and Will’s mouth is heavy and full with the blood of them both. It occurs to him suddenly, _impossible_ , that Hannibal knew all along this was the end.

 _Is this how you want to be found_?

He tenses, _no, this is us, for me_.

Hannibal draws back, _gentle_ , and twists Will’s arm around his back, _violent_ , the blade against his throat as he walks them both forward, just one step to face the front door. The dogs are cowering in the kitchen, tails between their legs as the SWAT Team shadows creep in. On the porch, sliding in along the wall, they don’t speak, guns up, lasers trained on the pair.

“You think you’re safe, now they’re here? That they’ll protect you?” He is whispering in Will’s ear, strong fingers squeezing his wrist and his circulation’s practically gone. “I’m _in_ you, Will, in your head, inside, I’m not going anywhere.”

He licks Will’s cheek with a smear of blood.

“Hannibal.”

Jack’s voice, deep, loud in the quiet of the room. He looks to Will for a second before his eyes fixate on Hannibal. The silence in the room stretches out around them. Then, Hannibal drops the knife from Will’s neck, slicing him deep across the gut instead. The knife curves up with a flourish, he can feel the blade hit the bone of his rib.

He falls back and Hannibal lets him, lays him on the ground, _gentle again_. There is a red roar in his ears but he can see Hannibal is speaking, hands over his head as they lead him away. Dogs barking, maybe sirens in the distance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canonical, but I started the book and I couldn't resist. Thanks for reading :]


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